Getting Better
by blackrose113
Summary: Two weeks after the New York attack, the aftereffects of Loki's scepter begin to manifest themselves and SHIELD brings in a new neurological team to do damage control on Clint Barton's brain. Lucky for him, Dr. Colleen Bamer might be just what he needs. ClintOC Drama/Humor
1. Chapter 1

Fury stood in front of the two-way mirror, his hands clasped behind his back, his leather trench coat haphazardly thrown across one of the chairs behind him. Deputy Director Maria Hill stood beside him, holding her ever present Stark Industries table, and looking past the glass window into the medical examination room. There, Agent Clint Barton sat on a cot as a government doctor put him through a barrage of neurological exams.

A week after the Avengers' ill-advised splitting up and departure, Barton had begun suffering mild seizures, severe headaches, nausea, and uncontrollable bouts of rage. Natasha, who had been on vacation with him, immediately brought him back to S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters in New York. For the past three days, Clint had been undergoing many psychological and neurological tests, and had several brain imaging scans conducted.

Upon hearing this, Fury had directed Maria to contact Dr. Erik Selvig. He appeared to be in much better condition, though he did admit to suffering frequent headaches and nausea. Selvig was in the next room over, undergoing the same exams as Clint.

Maria cleared her throat, throwing a sidelong glance at Fury. He gave the barest of nods, not taking his eyes off of Barton, and Maria began her report. "Sir, I have contacted all the neurologists and neurosurgeons on your list. I got a hold of Dr. Klein's employment contract, and he is precluded from any unapproved private consultations elsewhere. As Agent Barton's and Dr. Selvig's current medical conditions must be kept quiet, we did not pursue Dr. Klein and his employers' approval."

Maria continued.

"Your second choice, Dr. Feldman, has also declined, stating he had a full workload and was unable to take on any new patients."

Fury's eyes flashed. She answered Fury's unasked question. "Suggestion that we could work out a generous financial agreement was not well-received."

"Hm. Do you have any good news for me, Agent Hill?" Fury asked, his voice low with anger. He was head of one of the top (and two weeks ago, the most secretive) black-Ops programs in the world, and the only one to have a direct alliance with _aliens_ for christ's sake. How difficult should it have been to book a doctor's appointment!

"We've had a few positive responses. Dr. Lewis Mattock, Dr. Frank Chang, and Dr. Sarah Michaels have all expressed interest in a year long private consultation and treatment employment contract, and all have passed background checks. With your approval, I will proceed to inform them of which government agency they will be working with, and see if they are still interested."

Fury raised an eyebrow, to which Maria responded, "Public sentiment is divided after the invasion two weeks ago. I wouldn't be surprised if a few of these doctors had less than favorable feelings towards S.H.I.E.L.D. and our, how did Channel 9 put it again?"

"Militaristic overkill," Fury muttered. Many news stations seemed to be taking sides, proclaiming themselves "pro-peace" or "pro-Earth". He turned to Maria and crossed his arms over his chest, "Just make sure they all sign NDAs, and won't blab about it to the first newscast team they see downtown."

Maria nodded.

"And then I want you to set an agent to tail them until you're sure we're in the clear.

"Yes, sir. Consider it done."

* * *

Colleen Bamer balanced her groceries on her hip as she grabbed her mail and unlocked the door to her Boston apartment. The door gave a horrible screech and caught midway, springing back on her and almost knocking the groceries from her arms. The mail scattered to the floor. Cursing, she scrambled for the mail and shoved it down the side of one of the grocery bags, and put her groceries on the floor. After she squeezed past the door into her apartment, she reached over to the hinge and jiggled out the sandal that had gotten caught in the door. Surgery today was a real bitch, and they were shorthanded since several of their residents (including her) had been sent down New York hospitals to assist in treating the wounded. After getting back, Colleen dove right back into work. Today, she hadn't gotten to shower after her surgery, the hospital being so short staffed that everyone was working overtime. Colleen scratched at some dried blood on her neck and frowned in distaste. The groceries could wait. It was time for a shower.

As she stood under the hot spray of water, listening to the speakers she always blasted after a long day, Colleen let her mind wander away from work. She was glad her family lived on the west coast, ranging from Seattle all the way down to the O.C.. She had watched the news with them on the phone, horror struck at the destruction going on a mere three-hour drive away. Many of her friends and co-workers had opted then to take their vacation time and drive north, flying abroad from New Hampshire or Maine, in case the destruction reached Boston. Her parents demanded that she fly out to Los Angeles, but some twisted sense of companionship with the victims in New York stopped her. She couldn't run. Not when so many were dying and hurt, when she could actually do something about it. So she stayed, and worked, and did her best to help her patients survive.

_Aliens_ showed up, for crying out loud. Aliens! It had been hard enough for her to wrap her mind around the idea of superheroes and anger-induced monsters over the past couple of years. After the New York attack, Colleen figured that nothing could surprise her anymore.

So when, a week later, she was sitting in first class on a private jet to New York, clutching her acceptance letter to the _Roosevelt Neurological and Surgical Fellowship_ to work under Dr. Lewis Mattock of Columbia University, she had to admit that she was wrong, and that yes, life could still surprise her. Especially since when she landed, she was greeted personally by Tony Stark and Dr. Mattock, informing her that this year's fellowship had been withdrawn from her and awarded to some other lucky bastard, and that she would continue to work under Dr. Mattock as part of a neurologic team assisting with members of the _Avengers_.

Mind. Officially. Blown.

* * *

A/N: Will pick up in later chapters, starts a bit slowly.

Quick note. I don't own anything from the Marvel Universe. I also am trying my best to do research on the medical issues I'll be mentioning, but they will probably be a bit inaccurate because I don't really have the time to do all the research. Plus they have to do with the aftereffects of alien possession so…right. Let me know if you find any glaring errors!


	2. Chapter 2

Colleen started awake as her alarm shrieked in her ear and she frantically patted her comforter, trying to feel for the shrill phone. Despite the extra fifteen minutes she gave herself for a couple hits of the 'snooze' button, she turned the alarm off and slid her legs out of bed, toes searching for the fuzzy slippers she wore to keep her feet warm against the hardwood floor. She padded her way to the bathroom, and when she opened the door, the lights turned on automatically. "Thanks Jarvis," she muttered, rubbing her eyes out of both tiredness and annoyance.

Upon landing, and being informed that her dream fellowship had been given to someone else, a private car had driven Tony Stark, Dr. Mattock, and herself to Stark Tower. Already being in an admittedly bad mood from what she saw as being tricked out of a title she'd dreamed of since she was a child, Colleen was feeling quite argumentative.

"Why, exactly, am I going to Stark Tower? Shouldn't I be heading to my hotel to settle in?"

No one missed the edge in her voice, though it amused more than upset Tony.

"Sorry there, kid, I took the liberty of canceling your reservation and _instead_, had Pepper prepare an apartment for you over at my tower. If anything you should be thanking me. Hotel sheets—they always itch." He mock shuddered and threw her a winning smile. The glare he got back only made him smile wider.

The apartment was amazing, on the eightieth floor of the tower, and had a beautiful view. But Colleen couldn't help but feel as if she was being kept under surveillance. Knowing there was an AI butler that could see essentially everything she did in her apartment (whether he reported it to Tony or not) was unnerving. And after her meeting with Dr. Mattock, Director Fury, Agent Hill, and Tony Stark, she couldn't help but feel as though she were a bit of a prisoner. They read her her rights, questioned her about all the tiny hiccups in her file (she had a file?), including the citation she'd gotten for skinny dipping with her friends afterhours at the YMCA back in college, and explained the key points in the contract she was about to sign. Everything related to SHIELD or the Avengers, including their favorite color, she was prohibited from speaking about.

As it happened, two weeks ago, before Agent Hill had contacted Dr. Mattock and spoken to him about Clint Barton, Mattock and the rest of the fellowship committee had already selected Colleen for her fellowship.

"As a matter of fact, Dr. Mattock vouched for you when I came to speak to her directly," the man named "Fury" stated. The stare he pinned her with was about as intense as it got, so naturally she couldn't stop her eyes from flicking to his eyepatch. Immediately she wondered what was under there. A glass eye? A hole? Just a blinded eye?

'_Crap he's still talking. Make eye contact, Colleen, eye contact! Just like they say in those articles on how to make a good impression.'_ Her brow furrowed as she did her best not to blink. _'It's not a freaking game of "don't blink"! Ok, nose. That's neutral. The neutral nose. Look at the neutral nose. STOP LOOKING AT THE EYEPATCH!'_

"…and was he correct in assuming that?"

Colleen blinked. He was still talking! Damn. What?

"Sorry, what?"

Fury did not look pleased at having to repeat himself. "Where did I lose you, exactly?" He was not pleased at all.

Colleen fidgeted again and scratched her shoulder, "Sorry, I'm just a bit nervous. Somewhere around…the beginning?"

Dr. Mattock quickly took over. "After our interview some months ago, I was quite impressed with your resume, Dr. Bamer. I was pushing for the committee to select you for the Roosevelt Fellowship. However, that was before Agent Hill here," he gestured to the tall brunette who sat straight as a board and was typing notes on her tablet, "contacted me about a very interesting case. They needed me right away, but we had already selected you for the fellowship, and agreed you were to work with me. I hope I wasn't being presumptuous, but after meeting you and speaking with you at your interview, and after hearing you had gone to New York to help the victims of the attack, I insisted you should work with me, despite the fellowship."

Damn. He was right. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity. So she didn't get her dream fellowship, big whoop. She got to work with the _Avengers_! So she signed the contracts, asked for (and was refused) an apartment outside of SHIELD's sphere of influence, signed more contracts, had her retinas, fingers, and toes scanned, and of course had the obligatory ugly photo taken for her ID card.

That was yesterday, and today she officially began her new "fellowship".

* * *

Clint heard muffled voices and the shuffle of thick files being thumbed through. The hum of the X-ray viewer grated at his ears and he struggled to open his eyes. He was drowsy and his head wouldn't stop pounding. It had been weeks since he'd been able to think straight. He squinted his eyes in the fluorescent light of the medical ward (Tony Stark's very own medical ward. Man did that guy have money) and shifted off his side, trying to sit up.

His movement didn't go unnoticed, and he saw the familiar faces of Fury and his doctor, as well as an entire team of unfamiliar ones.

"Dim the lights please," an elderly man murmured, his eyes still glued to Clint's chart. A young woman, probably in her late 20s, immediately flicked off the light switch.

"How are you doing Agent Barton?"

This was probably the kindest Clint had ever heard Fury sound. But since he was usually yelling at something, that wasn't saying much.

"Um, fine," he murmured. "Who are the new guys?"

The elderly man finally looked up from his chart. "I am Dr. Lewis Mattock, and I will be the head neurologist on this case. This," he indicated to another elderly man, "is Dr. Philip Blanc. He is the head neurosurgeon on your case. And this," he indicated to the young woman, "is Dr. Bamer. She has just finished her residency in neurosurgery."

They each nodded their heads at him, thankfully not wishing to shake hands. Every movement was painful for him—even the simple ones.

"Now," continued Dr. Mattock, "we have been informed of the, shall we say, _unique_ circumstances under which you have suffered a type of trauma. We are here to see if it is physical or strictly psychological. We have your previous doctors' notes, and while we will be utilizing them, we may have to repeat scans or tests."

And so the next two weeks went by with electrodes attached to his head (they'd shaved off his hair) and images flashing on a screen before him. Sometimes there were games for him to play, sometimes there were numbers and words he was meant to recite. Sometimes they pricked him with a needle, dunked his foot in freezing cold water, sometimes they did both at the same time.

It was non-stop, the barrage of tests and scans. He redid scans the previous doctors had already done. He did them sitting up, lying down, with music filtering through, with violent images flashing across a screen. And occasionally, when they rested, and when he rested, the doctors would talk to him.

Dr. Mattock liked to play baseball, and he coached his grandson's junior league. He was often crunching away at an apple, "keeping myself spry!" he joked once. Clint liked him. Being a spy by default made him suspicious of people, but being a spy for SHIELD meant at least employees were trustworthy. And this doctor was clearly had a high security level clearance or he wouldn't be meeting with him at all.

Dr. Blanc didn't speak much, but from what Clint gleaned, he studied in Paris, and then Sweden, before going to Columbia to work with Dr. Mattock. As the surgeon, he wasn't around for many of the tests and scans. He would come into play when Dr. Mattock figured out what was wrong with him.

The girl, Dr. Bamer, kept him company most often. As the chief doctor, Mattock was able to relegate tasks to her, and so she was around most often.

She was from California, and had gone to Brown University for college, and Harvard for medical school. She did her residency in neurosurgery at Mass Gen, and was meant to work at Columbia for her year long fellowship with Dr. Mattock. Instead, she was here. Clint did the math in his head—that meant she was actually in her early thirties, just a bit younger than him.

"What are you doing working with Dr. Mattock if you're a neurosurgeon, not a neurologist?"

She finished setting up the IV fluids and shrugged. "He's an amazing doctor. I once attended a lecture of his at a medical conference. It was mind-blowing. And I figured I'd still get to scrub in on a surgery every once in a while, you know. Keep my skills honed and whatnot." She grinned and re-clipped her bangs. "I sound like such a dork, with my hero worship of a neurologist." Clint grinned.

"I don't think that counts as hero worship. You should've seen me when I was a kid. I wore Spock ears around for a year. Wouldn't take them off, I kid you not."

Colleen frowned. "That's the guy with the pointy ears from Star Wars right?"

Clint gasped. _What?_ He thought all doctors were geeks when they were younger. And geeks marveled at, or at least knew the difference between, Star Wars and Star Trek. Thus, all doctors knew the difference! This was ridiculous. He had to remedy her lack of nerd knowledge. "Alright, when I'm better, we're going to have a movie marathon."

"Trek," she corrected hastily. "I meant _Trek_."

Clint looked suspiciously at her. "Don't think that gets you off the hook, Ms. Doctor."

Colleen just laughed. And just like that, Clint had another seizure.

* * *

Natasha pulled her earbuds out, tinny classical music blaring from the custom fit Stark equipment. She had to admit, since SHIELD teamed up with Tony Stark, a ton of things became way more convenient. While SHIELD certainly splurged on its agents, much of the Stark equipment they used wasn't up for sale—to the government or otherwise. These earbuds, for example, were made by Tony in his free time, and the benefit cost ratio as predicted by the marketing division was much too low to be worth retailing. She unwrapped the tape around her wrists and ankles and sat on the padded weight bench.

Clint had been under medical observation for over three weeks now, and Tony had returned upon hearing what happened. She'd been there when he had his first seizure. He'd had headaches throughout their drive out to go rockclimbing Colorado, though Clint had brushed them off as being stress-induced. He didn't eat much at meals either, which peaked Natasha's suspicions even more. Due to the high demands their jobs had on their bodies, the two of them ate as much, if not more, than an Olympic athlete during the middle of training.

"Fuck," she whispered, resting her head in her hands. They'd just finished a day of rock climbing, and as they sat on top of the mountain, he'd seized. She could remember it so clearly, the way his face went white and his body went rigid. The only comfort she had was that his eyes stayed gray, and didn't fade to the electric blue that indicated he was under Loki's control. She'd pulled out her satellite phone and called Fury, immediately having the two of them picked up by a helicopter and flown back to New York.

She'd recounted the story a million times. First to Fury, then to the doctors, then to Clint, then to her psychiatrist (who Agent Hill _insisted_ she see once a week), then to Tony, then to even _more_ doctors. But Natasha supposed she should be grateful that they had brought in that new team of doctors. Neurological experts, Tony had said. And if he respected someone enough to call them an expert, she supposed that meant something. But since they began their tests, he had been barred from seeing all visitors. Erik Selvig had been brought in shortly after, with some short astrophysicist named Jane and a snarky intern named Darby or something following him.

The tinny sound of her classical music stopped and her phone buzzed. A cartoon black pirate flashed on the screen, the faraway sound of "Yargh, matey! Pick up for yer cap'n!" coming from the earbuds. Tony had set that up as Director Fury's personal ringtone on all Stark phones, and no one had yet found a way to change it. Natasha smiled, recalling how Clint had laughed in Fury's face about that. Right before Fury decided to send him to Northern Russia for a Recon mission. Ah, that spy never did have much tact when he was on the homebase.

"Yes?"

"Agent Romanov, Agent Barton has had another seizure. The doctors have decided to act now, and take him into surgery."

Natasha was on her feet in a second, her fist banging the elevator buttons. Her best friend, and the only person she could call family, was on an operating table seventy floors above her, and he needed her.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: I will probably be looking for a beta for this story, if anyone currently reading is interested.

And the neuroscience here is shoddy at best. Going into the details would take way too much time.

* * *

Fury stood at the front of the conference room, arms crossed over his chest, staring down at the rest of the room's occupants as the doctors discussed Agent Barton's and Dr. Selvig's conditions.

"See, the scans show some flares of overactivity in these regions," Dr. Mattock indicated on the scan, "when he's exposed to violent images. And many vessels in these same regions are so thin they could burst at any moment."

Fury's lips tightened. "So what exactly, does that mean?"

Dr. Blanc spoke up, "That means, that at any moment, Agent Barton could suffer a stroke and bleed into his brain. I can operate, but it'd have to be soon. The longer we wait, the higher the chances that these aneurysms will burst."

"Not to mention," Dr. Mattock continued, "the dead tissue in this region here." He indicated again, treating Clint's brain as nothing more than a printed picture, remaining clinical and objective. "As far as we've been able to see, much of this tissue is in the areas of the brain that regulate self-control and emotions, which seem to have been the main areas affected in his personality from what you've told us."

Fury's lips thinned even more. The room could hear his leather sleeves squeak and he tightened his crossed arms.

"The tissue seems to be spreading. I don't know what your _Loki_ did, when he took over Agent Barton's brain. He may have altered the protein structures within cells of the areas he sought to regulate, maybe planting the seeds of some prion-like protein. This could explain the spreading. Or maybe he inserted a virus. We really won't know. All we know, is that his brain is dying in these areas."

"And his seizures?" Fury was now pacing the room.

Dr. Mattock steepled his fingers and rested his forehead against them. "The seizures we can't explain. It may just be due to the increased activity in response to violence, that I mentioned before. It may be some lingering effect of this _Loki's_ control. We don't see the seizures in Dr. Selvig. He has only a fraction of the damage to his brain. But from what you described, he was allowed much more freedom under, uh, _Loki's_ mind control. His brain just suffered less damage because of this."

"Our best guess about the seizures, however," Dr. Blanc rubbed his eyes tiredly, "is that it's just an aftereffect of the tiny strokes he's been having. We found subdural bleeding in Agent Barton's brain, probably due to the massive trauma he suffers in his line of work, or maybe because some of those weakened blood vessels have actually began leaking."

Fury began pacing. He had an epileptic, apparently partially brain dead (in the most technical sense of the word) agent several floors above him, a frustrated superspy that refused to leave the tower for missions, and fucking Tony Stark barking at his heels, trying to get answers about the previously mentioned partly brain dead agent. Captain America was still god knows where, and Bruce Banner felt it prudent to stay away for these stressful times.

"So these seizures, which apparently don't seem to be triggered by anything at all. Will they stop once you've fixed the bleeding, or _potential_ bleeding in his brain? And will his brain stop dying, once you cut out the already dead parts?"

"Well we're assuming they're triggered by some sort of excitement. Which is why he suffered his first attack while rock climbing. He was able to fight in New York because nothing had progressed far enough to wreak real havoc on his brain. That's what we hope, at least."

"Alright, well—"

Jarvis's cool voice cut off the rest of Fury's sentence. "Agent Barton has just experienced another seizure. Dr. Bamer requires assistance."

The conference room emptied in less than a second, with two doctors rushing to the patient, and Fury on his phone, dialing Natasha and Tony.

* * *

Clint was aware machines were beeping like crazy around him, and doctors and nurses were shouting at each other, scrambling around the room and trying to hold him down. Something was inserted into his mouth, between his teeth, and he felt his body reflexively clamp down on it.

"Someone get Dr. Blanc _right now!"_

A needle was re-inserted into his arm—the one from the IV drip had been knocked out. As the seizure passed, padded cuffs were wrapped around his wrists and ankles, locking him into place.

Heavy footsteps and sighs of relief. The ruffle of papers indicated that charts were handed to Dr. Blanc, and after several moments of silence, he handed the papers off. "We need to take the patient to surgery. Tell Stark we need to prep his OR room."

Jarvis's voice filtered through the room in answer. "Mr. Stark has had the room prepped and sterile since Agent Barton was brought to the Tower. It is ready for use."

As Clint was wheeled into the OR, and Dr. Blanc went in to scrub up and sterilize himself, Colleen felt a hand on her shoulder, stopping her from following her fellow surgeon.

"What the hell happened in there? Were there any signs? Any triggers?"

She could hear the terror in Dr. Mattock's voice; terror that she too felt. What if they killed this man? Before this, it had all be tests and scans, recording information and trying to process it. But now, it her. They were operating on a not-so-secret government agent. A superhero. If they killed him, who's to say it wouldn't come down on her's, and her superiors' heads?

They didn't notice the red-haired agent who came to a stop around the corner, her eyes narrowed as she listened to the conversation.

"Jesus, did you do anything? What did you do!" Mattock ground out. The blame was evident in his voice.

"I don't know what happened." Her voice was shaky, unconvincing. She tried again. "I _don't know_. We were just talking. About Star Wars or Star Trek or something, for god's sake. I didn't do anything. It was my first time talking to him about something even vaguely personal. I don't know the guy at all."

Dr. Mattock put his hand over his face and rubbed his eyes. Jarvis's voice cut through the air.

"Dr. Bamer, Dr. Blanc is requesting assistance in the OR."

With one last terrified look at Mattock, Colleen pushed through the doors to the OR.

* * *

Colleen's breathing deepened, and her heartrate slowed as she entered the OR. If there was one thing she knew, it was surgery. It seemed to calm her, somehow. Despite all the unknown factors, surgery was one thing she could do. When she was in the OR, it didn't matter that she had been chronically single until her current boyfriend, who she was pretty sure was cheating on her when she broke up with him to leave for New York. It didn't matter that she was so overworked and stressed out that she barely spoke to her friends anymore and that her Boston apartment had a grand total of four pieces of furniture in it.

She steadied her hand, readying herself to peel back the patient's scalp. It didn't matter that this patient was the funny, tired man she'd spent 24 hours a day tending to for the past several weeks. Listening to his jokes with Mattock, watching him play videogames they provided for him, while his shaved head was covered with a series of electrodes, childlike glee evident on his face.

None of it mattered, because this was the world she knew. And she was good at it.

"Begin drilling."

* * *

Tony Stark and Natasha sat in the waiting room, staring at the pink marble floor. A camera in the OR projected the surgery on a screen outside, but neither Tony nor Natasha even glanced at it. Dr. Mattock refused to take his eyes off the screen.

Occasionally, Jarvis's voice would update them on Clint's status, and on the surgery itself. Tony had brushed up on his neuroscience over the past few weeks, and calmly translated the medical jargon for Natasha. Apparently, both Bamer and Blanc were operating on Clint, trying to "clip" as many of the aneurysms as possible, working in tandem.

Two hours passed, and Tony stood up to get coffee. "Want some?"

Natasha nodded and stood, the two of them walking down the hallway to another room with a professional-grade espresso machine. As Tony fiddled with the knobs, Natasha leaned over, her voice low and frantic.

"I heard them talking. She did something. The young doctor, she _did_ something, Stark. Mattock was blaming her, saying she must've triggered it somehow. Who's to say she didn't do something on purpose? They could have their own agenda. Could be using Clint as some sort of guinea pig."

Her voice was suspicious and angry, and Tony couldn't help but wonder if she was right.

"Jarvis, please send the recording of Dr. Mattock and Dr. Bamer to my phone."

"Right away, sir."

Tony's brow furrowed as he read the conversation, scrolling through it on his phone. "Natasha, I really don't think anything's going on. From what it looks like here, she's as confused as he is."

Natasha sighed in annoyance, "But I can _tell_. My instincts tell me something's _not right _here!"

She began pacing.

"Alright, ok." Tony relented, trusting Black Widow's judgement. "Jarvis, please run as thorough a background check on Dr. Colleen Bamer as you can. I want everything, from her entire life. And include her family too, any suspicious connections they might have. Make sure to point out inconsistencies from any different files."

"I'm on it, sir."


	4. Chapter 4

Three hours passed.

Then four hours.

Then seven.

By the ninth hour, Natasha was throwing knives at a bullseye Tony had hung up in the waiting room.

By the twelfth, Tony was on his phone, creating the specs for a new game he liked to call "pin the eyepatch on the angry guy". Clint would like that when he got better. And he _was_ going to get better.

And finally, after fifteen hours, Jarvis spoke up with some very good news. "Sir, Agent Romanov. Agent Barton's surgery is complete. It seems it has been a success, though he will have to have another surgery in two days. All the aneurysms have been clipped, and all that remains is removal of the necrotic tissue in Agent Barton's brain."

Both Tony and Natasha let out breaths they didn't know they were holding. Times like these were the ones that made him wish Pepper was just his girlfriend, and not his CEO as well. Then she wouldn't be off, halfway across the world, holding meetings with shareholders and board members, at a time like this.

Natasha's muscles were coiled and tense, ready to spring into action at any second. She'd been compromised. Vaguely, she knew that as she leapt from her chair and pinned Dr. Bamer to the wall, her arm pushing the doctor's trachea. She felt the woman (older than her, by a few years) struggle, her hands clawing at the Widow's arm and her feet kicking in the air as she tried to find the floor that was a good six inches away.

"Shit!"

Tony jumped up and tried to wrestle Natasha away. A sick, gagging noise came from Dr. Bamer, whose eyes were bulging and whose face was turning purple.

"What did you do to him!"

The Widow shoved Dr. Mattock and Dr. Blanc aside easily, her eyes pinned on Colleen.

"I heard you two talking. You were the one that was with Clint when he had that attack, _what did you do to him!_" She was snarling, and part of her knew she was wrong. That Clint was sick, and that he had his first attack while the two of them were together on vacation. That it wasn't this doctor's fault, it was just a coincidence. But she had been compromised, and her rage could only be directed at this woman in front of her, who looked to be a second away from passing out.

Fury's harsh voice cut through the haze in the Widow's mind. "Agent Romanov! What are you doing! Get your hands off of her, and report to my office."

Natasha released the doctor, suddenly losing all momentum, and backed up slowly. There was an embarrassing rush of hotness coming to her eyes. "Yes, sir."

* * *

Colleen lay crumpled on the floor, wheezing and coughing. Dr. Mattock and Blanc rushed over and knelt beside her, trying to help her up. _'What the fuck just happened!'_ her mind screamed. She ran her fingers over her neck. She was sure to have bruising after this. She'd probably have to go to an ENT for this, and maybe have surgery if her trachea was damaged. Absently, she wondered if her injury would lead to the coercion of another doctor into SHIELD employment.

At that moment, Colleen knew that they—she, Dr. Blanc, and Dr. Mattock—were all playing with fire. These so-called heroes, they were unstable. Unstable and violent and trained so well that they could take down any enemy. In fact, they had already taken down everyone who stood in their path. Aliens, demi-gods, soldiers. And she had stupidly marked herself as an enemy, however unintentionally.

She was dry-heaving now, and vaguely aware of her colleagues (technically, superiors) huddled around her. Someone was talking, telling people to bring her to her apartment. She would've laughed if she wasn't so terrified. Was that code for killing her? She saw a pair of shiny black shoes, and felt a firm a firm grip around both her arms. She realized she was being lifted into a wheel chair. As she was moved, she felt the overwhelming urge to vomit, the acid clawing its way up her throat. Colleen leaned over and promptly vomited all over the man's shoes, crying out as it irritated her already hurt throat.

Dr. Mattock spoke up. Thank god he spoke up. "No, take her to the medical ward. We will take X-rays, make sure she hasn't suffered any permanent damage. She may need surgery, if there was any internal dama—"

"NO!" Colleen rasped, her shaking hand clutching at the doctor's coat. "No, no more doctors. No one else." She wasn't sure if anyone understood her, she could barely understand herself. But Dr. Mattock seemed to understand the pleading look in her eyes. _Don't involve any more doctors. No one else should be caught up in this mess._

The next two hours were a blur of X-rays and check-ups. She was barely conscious for most of it, and her last thought before she fell into a sweet, blissful sleep, was that she had just vomited on billionaire genius Tony Stark's shoes. Oops.

* * *

Fury slammed his office door behind Natasha, glad for the privacy of the floor his office was on. Only those with top security clearance were allowed up, and at 3am on a Saturday, no one was there.

"What the _hell_ were you thinking, Agent Romanov? Attacking a doctor, a _SHIELD employee_ for god's sake! Someone who just spent _fifteen hours_ fixing up your partner. You could've killed her!" The room was soundproofed. He could shout as loudly as he wanted to.

He continued on his tirade, screaming about how unprofessional she was, and how he had let her take almost a full month off so she could be near Agent Barton. He tore into her about the various other spies that had to work overtime to compensate for her and Barton's absence from the field. About how he expected more from her, seeing as she had been in the game for ages. That attacking a civilian was the lowest of the low.

Natasha's face gave away nothing, but her ramrod straight back and clenched fists showed that Fury had hit a nerve.

"Now. Would you like to explain yourself." The quiver in his voice revealed his barely repressed rage.

"I—I just don't trust her. I overheard Mattock. She was the only one there when Clint had his seizure! Even he was suspicious. And speaking of, where the hell did she come from? Who _is_ she? No one's updated any of us on Clint's condition, and who these people are. They could be using him as some science project. No one's done research on alien possessed brains before, they could be—"

Fury held a hand up, cutting her off. "Now, I understand your suspicions. But you really think we haven't done our homework on Drs. Mattock, Blanc, and Bamer? I could tell you where they went to pre-school, where every girlfriend, boyfriend, or spouse of theirs' went to pre-school, and I have their entire family tree. You think we don't have an entire team monitoring their actions? What they do with Agent Barton in the medical ward? I can show you the video clip from this afternoon, and I can tell you, Agent Barton had nothing to fear from Dr. Bamer."

"Yes, sir."

"We must remember that these are _civilians_. The people we protect." His voice went quiet, and he waved his hand, dismissing her.

Natasha turned and walked towards the door, wanting nothing more than to get out of there and go to the shooting range. "I will inform you when Agent Barton has woken up. I wouldn't expect him to do so until tomorrow afternoon. And I expect an apology to the good doctors. I am sure they will appreciate it."

* * *

Steve Rogers hopped out onto the helicopter pad on the roof of Stark Tower. While it was still a huge eyesore, it was pretty convenient having everything he would need in one place. The top twenty floors were reserved for SHIELD use, and the bottom eighty were for Stark Industries use. The levels extending into the basement were split between the two, with a gym, a parking garage, and a shooting range. He felt it would be a little Orwell-ian (he had read the 'Top Ten Most Important Classics of the 20th Century'), living there and knowing that every move he made could be watched. Not that he'Living in Manhattan was certainly different from Brooklyn, but he just reminded himself that SHIELD were the good guys. Minor sacrifices on his part, such as living arrangements, were small fish.

He had ridden his motorcycle down south, past the border into Mexico. There, he was unknown. Anonymity suited him, he found. His skin was tan and the hop in his step had returned. That is, until he found a SHIELD helicopter flying above him, lowering down, with an agent clearly indicating for him to stop.

When the agent informed him of Clint's medical state, Steve immediately hoisted his bike over his shoulder and climbed into the helicopter. He didn't even wait for them to ask him to return. And now he was back, and Clint was due to wake up in a couple of hours. He may have spent a good deal of time fighting against Hawkeye, but fighting with him in a battle against aliens pretty much redeemed the archer, in Steve's mind.

He slung his duffel bag over his shoulder, shouted his thanks at the pilot (who returned with a thumbs up), and headed towards the roof-elevator for a retina and finger scan to enter the building.

After checking in with Fury, he took the elevator to the eightieth floor, which was filled with large, plush apartments. Many of them were empty and had no name engraved on the plaque next to the door. Absently, he noticed that the once empty apartment across the hall from his had a new name engraved in curly script: _Colleen Bamer_. Not that it mattered. People in New York never got to know their neighbors anyways.


	5. Chapter 5

_Dappled light fell on Clint's arm, breaking through the leafy branches above him. He felt well-rested, more so than he'd felt in a long time. The wind sang through the trees, and the shadows shimmered across his skin. He sat up, propping himself up with his elbows. He suddenly noticed he was leaning on a soft, grassy slope. There were small, rolling hills, as far as he could see into the distance. And under each hill, was a small, round door with a doorknob directly in the center._

'_Like a bullseye,' he mumbled._

"Or_, like a hobbit hole!" A sweet voice echoed around him._

Clint knew it was a dream then, what with the hobbit holes, and his calm, unsuspicious response to the echoing, bodiless voice.

_But it wasn't bodiless. There, lying next to him, was a pretty young woman with copper colored hair, and an arm flung over her eyes, obscuring her face._

"_Clint." Her voice sounded high and strange now._

"_Yes?" He reached towards her._

"_Clint!" She rolled over onto her stomach, turning her head away from him and pillowing it on her arm._

"_I'm right here. What is it?"_

"_Clint?" Her mumbles were quite loud, considering that she was probably speaking into the grass._

"_What? What is it!" He was beginning to feel a bit annoyed. If she didn't have her face into the ground, maybe she'd see that he was trying to answer her. Women…._

"Clint?! Hey, are you awake? Wake up!" Clint felt a light slapping against his cheek as he groggily tried to open his eyes.

"Hm?" He squinted at the annoyance that woke him up, and saw Tony Stark's gigantic, shit-eating grin. "Whaddya want, Tony. And why are you speaking in falsetto?"

Tony smiled wider, "Thought it'd add a bit more character. Maybe lure you out of your dreamland," he said proudly, before turning around to address the rest of the room. "He's awake!"

Natasha rolled her eyes, reaching forward to take Clint's hand. "Well of course he's awake, you were slapping his face." Clint met her eyes, wondering why she looked guilty and almost ashamed of herself. But that could wait for another time, when they could speak in private. Fury and Maria Hill both came forward to shake his hand, and welcome him "back to the world of the living."

Steve, grinned at him, and gave him a firm pat on the shoulder. Dr. Banner was standing by the doorway, away from the crowd of people around Clint, and he waved cheerfully. Even Pepper Potts was there, her hand in Tony's, and a sunny smile on her face. It was too bad Thor wasn't here, or it would be a nice little reunion.

After all the congratulations and the glad you're backs, two pepper-haired older men holding charts, scans, and clipboards shooed the crowd back, instructing them to give a bit of space for the post-op check-up. They explained to him the surgeries he had undergone over the past three days, and showed him the brain scans from between each surgery.

Clint marveled at the amount of energy he had as he slowly woke up. He felt infinitely better, and infinitely worse at the same time. He had a splitting headache, but for the first time in over a month, he could think clearly. It was as if someone cracked open the back of his skull (which, he supposed, someone did do) and pulled all the cotton and fuzz out of his brain (which, again, he supposed someone did do, in a manner of speaking).

But there were only two doctors tending to him. He furrowed his brow (then unfurrowed it, as it seemed to double the strength of his headache), and glanced around the room. He saw a group of nurses, and his original doctor from four weeks ago, but not the young, copper haired woman with the wire-rimmed glasses, that was the last thing he saw before going unconscious three days prior.

Natasha watched Clint surreptitiously search the room for a face, only to register disappointment. She wondered who he was looking for, though she had her suspicions. The was only only other person he'd been in close contact with in the past month, who had also failed to show up (other than Thor, but that was a different story). She'd talk to him about it later, when the two of them had time alone, with no prying ears. Currently, the two doctors were wheeling him out for more scans and tests, and fearfully reassured everyone that they could visit again in a couple of hours, after the tests were done.

The tension in the room rose exponentially at the tone of Dr. Blanc's soft voice, and Clint again furrowed (and unfurrowed) his brow. He had clearly missed something while he was out. That's fine, he'd ask Natasha about it later. Maybe it was connected to Dr. Bamer's absence.

* * *

Colleen stumbled out the elevator, two SHIELD agents holding her up as she squinted at the numbers and names on the apartment doors. The fading sunlight reflected off the gold plaques in a very regal, but quite shiny manner that very much irritated her pounding head.

After finally getting her first real break from the shit-show that was her job (after finishing Clint's last surgery, which directly followed a possible attempt on her life, she had a whole week to herself!) she made the rational decision to get totally wasted, by herself, in the a pub down the street. She knew that the two casually dressed soccer fans who entered two minutes after her, and situated themselves in a dark corner to her left, were SHIELD agents. They didn't seem to be concerned with her knowing they were there, and recognizing them as agents who worked on her floor. In fact, they made eye contact with her.

Good. They weren't sneaking around, trying to catch her unawares. She was being watched, to make sure she didn't let anything classified slip. Eh, it was probably good they were there. She'd probably need help using the retina scanner and the fingerprint reader if she got as hammered as she intended to.

Four beers in, and six packets of potato chips in, Colleen was feeling ready to do some shots. Alone, in a bar, _by herself._ _Alone!_ That thought almost made her giggle as she flung her head back and downed the liquid. She wondered how ridiculous she looked, and what the bartender must think. Scratch that, she wondered what those two SHIELD agents were thinking. They looked distinctly uncomfortable, and one of them had his eyebrows raised so high, it threatened to disappear into his hairline.

She called for a peach bellini, telling the barman that it was _never_ too early for champagne, to which his response was a nod towards the empty beer bottles and shot glasses littering her stretch of the bar. Colleen just gave a cheeky smile, and asked for three more shots. One upside to her lack of a social life, was that the paychecks just piled up in her bank account, going mostly unused. SHIELD or Stark himself would probably have funded this little bender, seeing as how Agent Romanov had attacked and nearly killed her the other day, buuuut she was determined to do this without their help. Call it independence. Whatever.

The barman (Who, by the way, had a beard of an unhygienic length. She was pretty sure it dipped into the drinks he made.) returned with her three tequila shots, along with a plate of salt and lime, and her bellini. She balanced the glasses and dishes in her hands, the bartender shooting her a sidelong glare, as if daring her to drop everything, and glided her way over to the two, uncomfortable looking SHIELD agents.

Colleen plopped herself down in an empty chair at their table, and doled out the drinks. "Hiiiya," she slurred, giving a drunken smile and licking a fingertip to dip into the dish of salt, sticking the grains to her skin. "Now, _I_ know who you are why you're here. And _you_ know why you're here. And while I don't mind drinking alone—I have no friends here, you see; just _crayzays_ all around me—you two look preeeeetty unacomafortubull with it. Or maybe it's just the barman's beard. Iya dunno." She sipped her bellini. "And so, I propose a toast, and a cheers, and thus a shot, _on_ me _to_ me. Not _on_ me on me, but as in I paid for it on me. A girl who is lucky enough, to have you two '_protecting'_ me. Go on!" She shooed them to pick up their glasses, which they, with much prompting, finally did.

Lick (salt), slam (shot), suck (lime).

Uncertainly, they followed her lead, quite certain that somewhere in the rulebooks, there was a clause forbidding them to drink with their charge. But damn if she wasn't insistent. For the next two hours, they watched in growing disbelief as the small girl in front of them seemed to consume her weight in alcohol, occasionally gulping large glasses of water between her drinks. She wheedled them into a beer each, and as they sat sipping, she proceeded to tell them (in an increasingly slurred voice) Harry Potter's life story.

And so here she was, several hours past noon (which was around when she strode purposefully into 'The Weeping Nag'), sprawled out on her bed, thoroughly drunk. As she predicted, she needed quite a bit of help to get past the security systems into the upper floors of Stark Tower, and her new friends Tweedledee and Tweedledum (as she nicknamed them. She really had no idea what their real names were) practically carried her to her apartment door. They helped her to her bed, and after several minutes of drunken instruction, were able to set her iPod and speakers to blasting Katy Perry. When she waved them away, almost smacking Tweedledum in the face (his real name was Agent Nick Parker) and actually smacking Tweedledee in the face (his real name was Agent Jordan Kaufman), they quickly exited the apartment and closed the door behind them, relieved to be out of one of the most awkward situations they'd ever encountered at SHIELD.

* * *

"Well Agent Barton, we're done for the day. We'll continue to monitor you over the next few months, however, to make sure you're healing properly."

Dr. Blanc hesitantly reached forward to shake Clint's hand, and Dr. Mattock followed suit. Their entire past few hours together had been awkward and mostly silent, with some unknown worry weighing the doctors down. Clint felt there had been no appropriate time for him to voice his concerns, or inquire about his missing doctor.

"Thank you, so much. I cannot express how much I appreciate what you've done for me. I might've died without you."

The doctors' smiles tightened stressfully in response. Something which did not escape Clint's notice, but would be counterproductive to ask about at the moment. Well, maybe he'd see how far he could push.

"Maybe when I'm better, I could take you guys out for a drink?"

Their simultaneous looks of horror, and yell of "No!" was still a surprise, though now, not unexpected. Something had happened, and he _would_ find out what it was. They vehemently declined, saying that they couldn't possibly, and they it was unnecessary, and that they both hoped he felt better, before retreating to the door to make a quick exit.

"Wait!"

The doctors froze, turning around with strained smiles. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry to keep you, but may I ask where Dr. Bamer is?" Now Clint's voice was hesitant, shy, almost. A fact not missed by Natasha, who stood outside the door, hand poised over the doorknob. She waited, wanting to hear the doctors' answers.

Dr. Mattock and Dr. Blanc shared a look that Clint understood to be unease, and Dr. Mattock coughed into his fist. "She has the week off. Dr. Bamer has been under quite a bit of stress, and was given time off after the end of your surgery this morning."

Both doctors (and Natasha) were quite aware that Colleen was as drunk as she could get without getting alcohol poisoning, and resting in her room with a bag of IV fluids dripping into her arm. Two SHIELD agents had come to ask for a nurse to bring several bags of IV fluids to Colleen, to, in her words, "save me from a seriously nasty hangover". Natasha silently retreated around the corner and waited for the doctors to exit.

Clint nodded. "Alright. Well if you see her, please tell her thank you."

They nodded curtly, and promptly fled the building.

Clint sighed, and kneaded his eyes with the palms of his hands. When he pulled them away, Natasha was sitting in a chair by his bed. He gave a lopsided smile. "Just wait til I'm better, you won't be able to surprise me then."

She returned his smile and took one of his hands in hers.

"So what's been going on?" he asked. "What's with all the tension in the room? Seriously, Tasha, there's a giant green elephant in the room and I feel totally lost." He'd actually had a green elephant, back in his carny days. No pink elephant, though.

Natasha looked away, but clasped his hand tighter. "I did something bad. Something really bad…"


	6. Chapter 6

AN: just realized how close the names Banner and Bamer sound. Whoops, it was unintentional. Also, I think I may be adding a prologue as my next chapter. Just a heads up : )

"Jesus Christ, Natasha," Clint breathed.

She had just told him about the post-op debacle with Dr. Bamer.

"I know, Clint. I messed up. But I was just so worried and after the whole Loki situation I just…"

She faded off. "I just didn't want to risk losing you again." Her hand tightened over his. "It wasn't like our other missions. It wasn't just live or die. It was like Loki, where you could be here, and I might be able to see you and touch you, but _you'd_ be gone."

He understood the look of guilt she had given him back when he woke up. And the tension in the room. He thanked his doctors for saving his life, and now he could hear their unspoken reply. _'Yes, we saved you. And your partner almost took one of us.'_

But he couldn't pretend he didn't understand Natasha's reasoning either. She'd grown up knowing only espionage, and utilized suspicion and distrust as weapons that had saved both their lives time and again. And they were each other's family. There were certain experiences some people couldn't go through without forming an unbreakable bond, and Clint and Natasha had gone through enough of them to call each other 'family'. If anyone really threatened Natasha, he'd break their neck without a second though. He'd killed enough men with his bow and arrow for just that reason.

So instead, he patted his best friend's hand, and gave her a heartwarming smile. "You know it wouldn't kill you to apologize to her?"

Natasha laughed. She heard the forgiveness (who knows what would've happened if Bamer was too incapacitated to operate on Clint the next day? Would he have survived his next surgery?) and the jest. He always knew how to make her feel better. "It almost did," she replied. Natasha had showed up in Colleen's apartment seconds after Colleen herself returned from the hospital ward, and reluctantly mumbled that Clint was her best friend and her only family, and that she only wanted to protect him. Then she'd disappeared. Hopefully the doctor wasn't too dense to understand that was as much of an apology as she'd make for her actions.

"You probably gave some god-awful apology that didn't even use the words 'I'm sorry', didn't you." Clint chuckled. In all their years working together, Natasha had only apologized to him twice. Once had been fairly recently, after he woke up from Loki's control. She whispered how sorry she was that she couldn't protect him, and promised she'd never let him down again. And the other had been years ago, in the very beginning of their partnership, after the first and only time they'd slept together. But by now, all the romance was gone from their relationship, leaving only trust and companionship.

Natasha was still curious, though, about what had happened to cause Clint's seizure all those days ago. When she asked, he looked away, and refused to meet her gaze. He mumbled something about it being nothing and tried to change the subject, but his darkening cheeks gave it away.

Natasha, stunned, whispered a half accusing half mocking "You _like_ her!" And after a two second pause, she doubled over with silent giggles, her arms wrapped around her stomach and her shoulders shaking violently.

Clint frowned, fidgeting with his bed sheets, and practically whined at Natasha to stop laughing at him. "Stop it! It's not funny."

Breathless, she managed to wheeze out a quick question before continuing with her laughter. "But wasn't that the first time you even _talked_ to her? That's what she said!"

"_No_," he argued. "We talked about…brain stuff. And my diet and exercise routine. And everyday stressors that could've led to brain damage." The more he talked, the sillier he felt.

Clint gave a reluctant smile, covering his face with both his hands and wishing he still had hair he could pull on when he was feeling frustrated. It _was_ completely ridiculous, wasn't it. "C'mon, don't be an asshole. I mean, we _did_ spend every day together for like, three weeks. We just didn't speak socially or anything. She was doing all the busywork that the other doctors put on her. And she always really funny and sweet… she gave me extra jello!"

Natasha rolled her eyes. "You mean she seduced you with enough extra jello that you had a seizure the moment she talked to you as more than a patient? You're a pretty easy lay then."

Clint huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. "Well what about _you_ when you first met Alan, hm?" Natasha's eyes widened fractionally before returning to their normal state, and she coolly brushed off his attempt to re-route the conversation. "That was a completely different situation. He wasn't my _doctor_, and we'd exchanged more than just professional words."

Most people assumed Clint and Natasha were together romantically on and off, but Natasha had actually been in a relationship with a Canadian artist for quite a while now. The more people that assumed she and Clint were together, the better. They could fend for themselves, should anyone target one to get at the other, but Alan wouldn't stand a chance against Natasha's enemies.

Both of them lapsed into a comfortable silence and watched the sun slowly set outside the window, until a four person barbershop quartet (all wearing cumberbunds and straw hats) burst into the room, with a small army of trumpet players filing in behind them. Clint groaned. Say what you would about the man, but Tony sure did know how to make an entrance.

Early the next morning, Clint carefully unhooked himself from the several machines monitoring his body functions, and swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing at the coldness of the floor. His clothes were folded neatly on the corner chair, and he quickly donned them, pulling up the hood of his jacket as an afterthought. Best to keep his nearly operated-on head protected. Leaving a scribbled note saying _'Went out. Be back soon. –C'_, he snuck out of the hospital ward and headed for the roof.

As a sniper, he felt most at ease the higher up he was. If no one was above him, no one could sneak up on him. The air up there was cleaner, he felt, and after being cooped up for over a month, he definitely needed some fresh air. He pushed open the door to the rooftop and swung his arms (carefully, still very carefully) and practically skipped (oh so carefully) to the eastern side of the building. He peeked over the edge of the railing, down on Tony's personal 90th floor patio several floors below, and was relieved to see no one out there. Clint leaned his elbows against the railing, breathing in the cool, crisp air, and waited patiently for the sun to rise.

* * *

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Colleen groaned, her arm sweeping across her bedside table, searching for the source of the sound.

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Thunk._

She swung her arm into the crack between the table and her bed, fingers fumbling for the timer that fell off the table. A bright green 00:00:00 flashed in her face, and she rubbed her eyes to pry them open further. This was the third time she'd been woken by the timer to change her IV bag. The nurse that brought them up inserted the needle into her arm and taped it there to make sure she wouldn't accidentally dislodge it in her sleep. She then set a timer to beep at four, eight, and twelve hours to notify Colleen she'd have to change the IV bag.

She didn't feel excellent by any means, but it would've been way worse without the constant hydration the IV fluid provided her with. As Colleen switched out the bags and tossed the old one into the trash, she rubbed the roof of her mouth with the top of her tongue and grimaced. It was probably time to brush her teeth and shower.

Twenty minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, feeling slightly better and more ready to face to day. Well, maybe not quite ready for that yet. She _might_ need a bloody mary to start it off. So she hastily threw on a pair of sweats and a lumpy, knitted sweater, and tossed a few necessities into a bag. She then grabbed a couple of pillows and a large quilt (this apartment was way better furnished than her previous one in Boston) and headed to the elevator.

* * *

The sky was lightening, and Clint figured he had maybe another fifteen minutes before the sunrise. It was a beautifully clear day, with only a few wispy clouds floating above the city. He was so high up that none of the city sounds reached his ears, and he only heard wind and the occasional bird chirp. Oh, and the ding of the elevator.

The elevator opened facing west (the stairs opened to the north), but Clint didn't have long to wait before he saw Colleen Bamer shuffle out around the corner, with a large bag over one shoulder, and several pillows and a quilt under the other arm. He stayed quiet, wondering how long it would be before she noticed him. Natasha probably would've sensed him the moment she stepped out of the elevator. A regular SHIELD agent would probably have noticed him the moment they turned the corner. But Bamer, being a civilian, set up camp against the door to the stairwell (which someone could've easily opened and knocked her over with) and settled among a pile of pillows while wrapping a quilt around her, all without noticing him.

It wasn't until after she set up her IV bag, hanging it on the stairwell doorknob, and began pulling out supplies for a bloody mary, that she noticed the hooded man watching her from the railing a mere fifty feet from her. She started so badly that she slopped V8 all down her front and over her quilt, and scrambled away, clutching a can of pepperspray in front of her as if it was her lifeline.

'_Shit_' Clint thought, feeling stupid for not alerting her of his presence sooner. She'd just suffered a pretty traumatic attack the day before, and probably didn't trust anyone in SHIELD. He raised his hands, palms facing outwards, in the universal sign for 'I'm not going to hurt you' and slowly moved one hand to pull back his hood. "Sorry to give you a scare, Dr. Bamer. I just came up here to get some fresh air, watch the sunset maybe. Been cooped up indoors for way too long." He watched her inch closer, lowering her can just a little.

Colleen squinted at the man in front of her, verifying that it was her patient Agent Barton, and noting that he seemed to have no weapons pointed at her at the moment. Which really didn't matter, as he could probably kill her with his pinky. So did it really matter if she had a tiny can of pepperspray? Would that really save her? She lowered her arm and grabbed her quilt. It was quite windy up here.

"Hi, Agent Barton. I mean, good morning." Her words were stilted, uncomfortable. She continued, "Do you mind if I…" she indicated at her haphazard pile of pillows.

"Oh, yeah of course! No problem. Here, let me help you." He stepped forward and knelt on the ground, helping her right her pillows to form a comfortable little nest. She settled back into them, and re-inserted her IV drip. He noted guiltily that the needle had ripped out of her arm when he surprised her a moment ago.

"Oh, and call me 'Clint'."

She did not reciprocate with her first name.

Colleen sighed and rested her head against the stairwell door, and then hunched forward and began to re-make her drink. Some V8 and vodka, and voila! The result: hair of the dog. Tony Stark kept minifridges in all of his apartments, and had them re-stocked every day—something that proved very useful when one awoke with a hangover at 6am. Which was honestly, probably why the fridges were installed and stocked in the first place.

When she was done making her drink, she peeked up through her bangs at Agent Barton. His head was still shaved, and she could see the grizzly stitches and staples that kept a flap of his scalp in place. He looked nervous, as if he didn't know what to do with himself now that she was here. But he had been nice enough to her, regardless of what his partner had done to her (which, she begrudgingly admitted, she understood), and if anything, Colleen had been raised to have manners.

She silently offered him a pillow (just _one_ pillow…his friend _did_ try to kill her afterall, and there was no need to be _that_ generous with her things), and a sip of her bloody mary.

Clint gave her a tiny, sweet little smile that made her heart flutter (just a _little_), and sat himself down on top of the pillow, leaning against the stairwell door next to her. He raised his eyebrow when he saw the drink she offered him. "You sure I should drink that, doc?" He pointed to the back of his head, which was now covered by his hood again, and gave her a questioning look.

"Good point. You're probably still on copious painkillers. Best leave all the alcohol to me, then, Agent Barton," she joked. A moment passed, and Colleen offered him the half full bottle of V8 and a disposable cup, and the two sat on the roof, quietly drinking their tomato beverages, and watching the sun rise.


	7. Chapter 7

AN: I just fixed the barriers. i keep forgetting they don't transfer from word to ff.

* * *

Clint didn't see Dr. Bamer for the rest of her week off. '_It's a little unfair'_, he caught himself thinking, '_she got a week, _and_ the Sunday after. That's eight days I didn't get to see her, not _one_ week!_' He revealed these thoughts to no one, but couldn't help but be a bit excited come Monday morning. Maybe his entire trio of doctors would finally be present for today's check-up and rehab!

Dr. Bamer was the first to show up. She was early, her hair was in a bun, and she looked much better rested than any previous time he'd seen her. He unconsciously sat up straighter when she walked into the room, and she shuffle of his clothes notified her of his presence. She started. Why was it she never seemed to enter any area fully paying attention to her surroundings? She was enveloped in her pillows a week (eight days!) ago, and fully engrossed in his chart today.

"You really should pay better attention to what's going on around you Dr. Bamer. This is two times I've snuck up on you already." He pointed to his bandaged head. "I'm brain damaged too, remember?" he added, smirking a little.

Colleen laughed, and extended her hand for a firm handshake. "Nice to see you again, Agent Barton. Sorry, I was just catching up on your charts. I took a week's" (eight days!) "leave to settle some personal affairs," she lied smoothly.

Clint opened his mouth to respond, when Dr. Mattock and Blanc entered the room, ending their conversation. "Alright, let's begin with the usual check-up before we start rehab today, shall we?"

Clint didn't get another moment alone with Dr. Bamer for another month and a half.

* * *

A routine developed over the next six weeks. At 9am sharp, Colleen (usually with her nose stuck inside a folder) and one of the other doctors would come in and give him a check-up, making little marks in their notes and ticking off boxes on their clipboards. Colleen never arrived early, save for her first day back after the Natasha debacle, and she was never alone. Dr. Mattock and Dr. Blanc seemed to have taken it upon themselves to protect their protégé, always keeping an eye on her when she was with Clint. The three of them ate lunch together around noon. They then walked together to grab a drink before they went to their respective apartments at the end of day, usually around 5pm. He got a break from rehab on weekends, but the three doctors were always in the research facilities, running experiments on the brain matter they cut out of his head. Anyways, Fury had him analyzing terrorist movements on the weekends (with a babysitter checking his work, of course, to make sure he didn't fuck up and send agents to Anguilla instead of Angola, or vice versa) to "keep his brain from turning to mush".

It was driving Clint crazy (not the missing parts of his brain; he actually felt fine about that; better every day!). He went up to the roof at night when he couldn't sleep, or when he woke early, in the hopes of catching her alone again, maybe trying to ease some of the tension between them. Help her feel more relaxed working with SHIELD. Even _apologize_, as he stupidly forgot to do the two times they'd been alone. He thought about following her until she was alone, and trying to catch her off guard. But that probably wouldn't go over well with her. She was paranoid and suspicious enough without him stalking her.

And then, his six weeks of rehab were over, and he was deemed fit to return to work, with check-ups once a week for the next eight months. His doctors had thoughtfully brought in a small, homemade cake ("I made it in my easy-bake oven. Pretty much the only thing I know how to cook with," Colleen said) to celebrate his recovery from "alien possession" as they called it. Each shook his hand in congratulations. Over the weeks, the doctors had gotten much more relaxed with him, though not to the point they were at before his surgeries. It was understandable, after what happened. They were polite enough to Natasha when she picked him up after each rehab session, respectful to Fury when he checked in, and slightly amused with Tony; the only person they seemed to really warm up to Steve Rogers. _'Well, kudos to him.'_ Stupid Captain America…

Perhaps the most interesting piece of information he received that night was when Steve (the only Avenger currently around—Tony was at his Brazilian _Stark Tech_ manufacturing plant, Bruce was back in India, and Natasha was on a mission) stopped by his apartment with a six pack of beer (Budweiser—an American brand, of course) and his sketchbook. He'd thoughtfully begun illustrating (from memory, of course) scenes from many of the missions Clint had missed out on. There were drawings of masked bad guys, handguns, Ironman, and even and entire fight scene that was complete with 'POW's and 'WHAM's.

Other drawings were of everyday life. The New York skyline. A hot dog vendor. The hallway of apartments he lived in, on the other side of the tower from Clint's apartment, drawn so neatly and detailed that Clint could see the sheen of the metal doorknobs and nametags, and even make out a tiny, cursive etching of "Colleen Bamer" on the door across from Steve's…

This was his golden ticket! This wasn't weird, or creepy. He could just _happen_ to be leaving Steve's apartment and he could _happen_ to run into her. _'Oh, hey! Fancy seeing you here!'_

Clint snorted. Fancy seeing you here? What was he, a forty year old, British housewife? Who said _'fancy'_? Of course, he could always meet up with her the way he _normally_ met up with people who didn't want him to find them: hide in the airduct leading to her apartment, with a bow and arrow, wait for her to get home, and shoot her through the neck. Yeah, that'd go over _really_ well.

Sighing, Clint ran his hand through his short hair, absently thanking god that he was no longer bald. The look really didn't suit him—his head was lumpy.

Instead of all the stealth, Clint settled for the most heartfelt, direct way he could think up to meet her. With a slight buzz from the beers he and Steve shared, he went to the closest grocery store and bought the necessary tools for _Mission: Catch Bamer Alone_. No, wait, that sounded way too creepy. It was about as menacing as _Mission: Murder Bamer_. He couldn't imagine what anyone would say if they ever saw it written down and out of context. Alright, regroup. _Mission: Meet Pretty Doctor Who Helped Save My Life_. A little wordy…let's abbreviate it. _Mission: MePreDoWhoHeSMyL_.

Clint huffed. _'You know what, I'll work on the mission name later…'_

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Clint knocked on Colleen's door, and stepped back, making sure she could see his face through the peephole. He heard her footsteps at the door, and watched her feet block the light coming from under the door. His blood pounded in his ears, and he was quite certain his hands were damp and clammy. This was ridiculous! He could take out a dozen 'bad guys' from hundreds of meters away with deadly accuracy and barely break a sweat. How could he get nervous just trying to really, truly thank someone for saving his life (and maybe see if her apartment smelled like the perfume she wore to work—stop! Creepy!)?

She still hadn't opened the door. Why hadn't she opened the door yet? She'd been standing there for at least thirty seconds, maybe a minute now. Oh god, did she not want to see him? Should he leave? It was the short hair and the lumpy head, wasn't it!?

* * *

Tony roared with laughter as Natasha smirked, and an amused-but-pretending-not-to-be Steve tried not to laugh. They were watching the security footage (live, of course) in Tony's private movie theatre on the 91st floor. This was, much, much, better than the rom-com they were about to watch when Steve (god bless him) mentioned Clint had asked him where he could purchase something called "Easy Bake cake mix". Tony immediately had Jarvis upload the security footage for Steve's hallway, and sure enough, five minutes later, Clint waltzed into the frame.

"He looks like he's about to ask a girl out to prom!" Tony cackled, throwing popcorn at the screen. "And I've _never_ seen him so sweaty before."

* * *

The door opened and Colleen poked her (oh so lovely) copper haired head into the hallway. "Agent Barton. I didn't get a page from the medical ward, is something wrong?" _'And why are you so sweaty?'_

Clint swallowed nervously, _'Budweiser beer. Lend me your strength.'_

"Please, call me Clint."

Clint took a deep breath and held out a bottle of champagne and cake mix. Inwardly, he sighed as he saw the lense of a tiny camera poke itself forward, probably magnifying his incredibly sweaty face for whoever was watching this right now. Probably Tony. He'd kill Tony.

"A celebration isn't a celebration without a little champagne. And you obviously couldn't drink on the job today, so I just thought…"

His words came out in a rush, fading away at the end as he lost steam.

Colleen gently took the bottle from his hands, reading the label. She nearly snorted. The label read '_Stark Champagne'_. She vaguely recalled hearing that Tony Stark had bought a vineyard in France a while back, just because having a fizzy drink named after him was on his bucket list.

Clint seemed to have read her mind, because he chuckled embarrassingly, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. "Yeah, I know. It's pretty ridiculous he has his own Champagne, isn't it? Sometimes I wonder what exactly it is he's compensating for."

* * *

Steve's eyes widened at the implications, and he couldn't resist the urge to look at Tony's lap. Tony quickly responded (once he closed his mouth and the shock had passed) and slapped Steve upside the head.

"I am _not_ compensating for anything."

Natasha smirked. "Oh, and Stark Tower is a hundred stories tall…why?"

Tony replied, unfazed. "Because the prototype arc-reactor couldn't run something bigger."

Steve frowned.

"Wait. I thought the joke was that the Tower was inversely proportional to your—"

"I _know_, I _know_." Tony cut him off, huffing in frustration. "I messed the joke up. Damnit…"

* * *

Colleen laughed, nodding her head in assent. "Yeah, who knows what he's hiding down there? Could be…nothing."

Clint grinned, glad that Tony's junk could break the ice like this. Not _literally_ break ice, just…nevermind.

"I also brought you some more cake mix. I didn't want you to run out. And, um, a jar of nutella? For frosting?" He lifted his arm, a grocery bag dangling from his wrist with a heavy jar resting at the bottm.

"Oh, thanks. That's so thoughtful of you," Colleen replied, uncertain of his intentions. She took the box of cake mix and the bag with the nutella in it.

Clint waited a beat too long to speak, and Colleen began closing the door, murmuring 'good night'. Without thinking, he lunged forward and stuck his foot in the door, keeping it from closing, while shouting "WAIT!"

That was way too loud and way too in-her-face.

"Wait, look. I just wanted to say 'thank you' and you really didn't have to make a cake for me, or anything, so will you please let me do something nice for you, and just…get to know you?" She didn't answer. "I know you haven't really felt very comfortable or at home here after everything that happened with Tasha and everything—"

* * *

Two voices simultaneously shouted, "JARVIS! Start the movie!"

Even Ironman and Captain America had a sense of self-preservation when it came to the Black Widow.

The security tapes cut off, and the intro credits to 'When Harry Met Sally' began to play.

* * *

"—I just…I just want to do something _nice_ for you."

Damnit, when was the last time he rambled? Ages ago, when he was trying to talk to a girl at the carnival, while working at the ring toss stand.

Clint gave the most reassuring smile he could muster. "C'mon, doc."

Colleen hesitantly opened the door a little wider. "You sure your girlfriend won't mind?"

Clint laughed, relieved that this seemed to be her main reason for keeping him in the hallway. "What, Tasha? No, she's not my girlfriend." He was about to say she was like family to him, but checked himself. Even if he was more of a behind-the-scenes kind of spy (little direct contact with the enemy, mostly killing and watching from afar), he knew better than to go around shouting about his personal relationships. People who knew how close he was with Natasha, knew it because they were around him enough to see it. They were the only ones he trusted with the information.

Colleen nodded, absently pushing her bangs out of her face. "Um, yeah. Come on in. We can pop the champagne in the kitchen, I think there are some glasses around here somewhere…"

Clint mentally high fived himself, and strode confidently into the apartment. _'Well done, Clint. Well done.'_

* * *

AN: sorry it took so long for the story to pick up. I didn't realize until I re-read the entire thing recently.


	8. Chapter 8

AN: hey, I'd really appreciate some reviews from you guys I love the 'story alert' members, but some feedback (even if it's simple) would be really great in the form of reviews. Hopefully you'll be more encouraged since the story's picking up :) haha

* * *

Clint followed the doctor into her apartment, navigating his way easily as he recognized the standard (but still opulent) layout of the Stark Tower apartments. He leaned against the kitchen counter and accepted a glass of the cool, bubbly champagne, and waited as Colleen rooted through her cabinets for a measuring spoon and a mixing bowl.

He took in the apartment, noting the lack of personal decorations. There was only one, albeit large, picture frame which hung on an otherwise empty white wall. The whole apartment was lit up with the standard fluorescent lighting of Stark Tower, and an action movie was playing on mute, while quiet music floated through the air. Clint noticed a stack of papers and a book lying open on the living room table. Clearly the doctor liked to keep herself occupied. All this was done with the sweep of an eye, and he turned back to the matter at hand: baking this cake.

Clint waited as the woman quickly added cake mix and water to a bowl, mixed it, and poured it into a ridiculous, pink, baking tin. He fiddled absently with his keys in his pocket.

"You wanna lick it?"

Upon hearing Collen's voice, Clint's head snapped up, his eyes wide and his cheeks pink (again!). _'What's with all the blushing, Clint!'_

And he stammered, coughing nervously into his fist. "Uh, um w-what?"

Colleen frowned, and shook the batter covered spatula in front of his face again (how did he miss it the first time?), "The batter. I asked if you wanted to lick it."

Oh. OH! _'Fuck, Clint, you are an idiot.'_

Clint gave a nervous laugh and took the spatula from her, grinning goofily when their hands met briefly.

Colleen set a kitchen timer for an hour and took a swig of champagne. _'God that's good stuff.'_ Stupid Tony Stark and his good taste in alcohol. Her eyes shifted to the sniper standing a mere five feet away from her. He was looking at her again.

She cleared her throat. "So, um. What do you want to do, Agent—uh, I mean _Clint_?" She hastily corrected herself at the look he gave her.

"Well, _doc_," they were both quite aware that she hadn't invited him to use her first name yet, "I don't want to impose on you or anything. I mean, we could, um, you know, just talk? Hang out a bit?" His eyes were hopeful, and Colleen couldn't resist poking fun at him.

"You sure you mean talk, not stutter?"

Clint flushed again, his hand reaching back to ruffle his hair nervously. When he looked up, the doctor was grinning at him, her eyes glinting mischievously. "I'm kidding, _Clint_! I'm just teasing, c'mon." She moved closer to him and stood right next to him, giving his shoulder a little nudge with hers, "Loosen up a bit!"

She walked over to the couch in the living room.

The tension left his body, and he laughed lightly, following her and settling into the soft cushions.

"I'm not generally used to talking to a lot of girls," he said. He took a swig of champagne, liking the tingling feeling it sent into his stomach, "I was a bit of an awkward child." Clint threw Colleen a bashful smile.

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I sort of assumed. Isn't that the stock superhero? Stressful childhoods are like, the norm for you guys, right?"

"I'm not a superhero," Clint responded automatically. "No super power. I just have good aim." He held his index finger and thumb in the shape of a gun and squinted one eye shut, "Pow." He jokingly raised the 'gun' to his lips and blew at the imaginary smoke coming from the barrel.

Colleen shrugged, feeling silly and more than a little playful now that she was feeling less awkward. She mimicked his hand motion, whispered "pow" and glanced sideways at Clint. "I just shot a speck of dust off the top of the TV. You might have some competition in the sniper department."

Clint raised an eyebrow before deciding to go along with her little game. He shook his head in mock disappointment. "I think you need to get your eyesight checked, _doc_. You veered left. Hit the entirely _wrong_ speck of dust."

Colleen giggled and released her 'gun'.

"Whatever, Clint, I guess I'll just never be up to your silly superhero standards."

"_Not_ a superhero," he reminded her.

She looked curiously at him. "Why not a superhero? You're part of the 'Avengers' aren't you? Isn't that a superhero team?"

He shrugged. "It's a technicality. 'Super' implies that I have super powers, which I don't. Whether or not I'm part of the 'Avengers' is irrelevant."

Colleen frowned, and leaned forward to grab her glass of champagne from the coffee table in front of the couch. "By _your_ definition, you mean. I'm sure plenty of people think you guys are pretty awesome heroes. Maybe even heroes who are _super_," she grinned slyly at him, "at their job of being a hero." She set her glass back down. "In any case, I'm sure you're a _hero_ at least."

Clint laughed and folded his arms across his chest, squinting his eyes into an exaggerated glare and pursing his lips in a very Fury-ish manner. "Clint Barton. Occupation: hero. Competency at occupation: super." His voice came out deep and with a bad Scottish accent. Who was he imitating, Sean Connery?

Colleen giggled again, mimicking his 'superhero' pose. She deepened her voice comically, also adopting a horrible Scottish accent, "And thus, logically, it is 'Clint Barton, _superhero! Muahahaha!_"

Clint raised his hand, cutting her off. "Wait, wait, wait. Muahahaha? That's super_villain_. Not superhero! Not _any_ kind of hero!"

Colleen rolled her eyes. "Fine, Mr. Spoil-sport. Just think of me as the announcer then. I can be some supervillain announcing your name for some stupid tournament or something."

Hah! Here was his chance! "Well if you get to call me Mr. Spoil-sport, I definitely get to call you by your first name. At least until I think up of a derogatory nickname for you."

Colleen blinked at the sudden change in subject. "Um," she laughed nervously, "yeah, sure I guess. Well, call me Colleen, I guess?"

Clint nodded sagely, "Yes. Clint Barton, super at being a hero, and Colleen Bamer, super at guzzling champagne."

She glared at him, then glanced at her nearly empty glass. She gave a reluctant grin, "Yeah, I guess I do gulp that stuff down pretty quick when I'm nervous."

"Oh? And do I make you nervous, _Colleen?_" Clint gave a devilish smile. Hm, flirting really was much easier when he wasn't terrified he was going to scare the girl off. Oh, and when he had permission to actually use her name.

Colleen went quiet, and hugged her knees to herself, swishing the last of her champagne in her glass and watching it fizz up. Despite the now-somber mood, Clint was glad he'd brought that up. While he meant it playfully, it certainly addressed a key issue the woman had with being here at Stark Tower, and working with SHIELD.

He mimicked her and brought his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. He smirked lightly when he noticed her eyeing his arms, her cheeks tinged pink. Clint rocked sideways and nudged her as she had done to him earlier in the kitchen.

"I wouldn't blame you if you said I _did_ make you nervous, Colleen."

She paused a beat before answering. "Yeah, I guess you do. All of you. I mean, I didn't really apply for this job at all. I kinda just got roped in…"

Clint listened carefully as she explained how she had come to work for SHIELD. They did have a knack for coercing people to join them. He himself had been reluctant to join at first, but quickly come to appreciate the security his job held, and the good he was doing for the world.

"…and then after the incident with Agent Romanov…" she trailed off, avoiding his eyes.

What did he think about it? Colleen knew the two were close. She thought they were an item from the way they seemed to always know what the other was thinking. So she waited expectantly for his response, wondering if it would be filled with pity or derision. Neither of which she wanted, really. At least it would give her an excuse to fully shut herself away and just concentrate on her work until her contract was up.

His response was unexpected. "I know you understand, doc."

'_I know you understand why she did it. That she didn't mean it. That we've all been wound so tight we could snap at anything, especially the thought of someone hurting a partner. And I know you understand that you'll never _really _understand.'_ Clint's eyes were intense. The doctor wasn't dumb. He could tell, from two months of spending almost every day with her, that she tried to behave as objectively and as fairly as possible. She relied on her objectivity at work. It was clear could see the reasons for Natasha's and SHIELD's actions, maybe even appreciate them. But no one could dissociate themselves from their emotions entirely. And fighting with her understanding and tentative acceptance of here new co-workers, was the anger and outrage at what she had been subjected to.

Colleen nodded, looking away. "And you guys, then? Do all of you…understand, too? Why I'm angry, and scared, and _feeling so damn isolated_?" She ended her words with a hiss, her eyes shining a little too brightly to be solely due to the fluorescent lighting. She lowered her face into her knees.

Clint remained silent, not sure how to respond. This was why he was here, to help make those feelings go away, if not disappear entirely. And so he relied on his general goofiness to assist him.

Colleen felt the couch shift next to her, and for a second she thought Clint had got up to leave. She couldn't help but to feel disappointed. It had been nice having a friend around here, if only for a little while. While she may have been mostly engrossed in her work back in Boston, she at least had co-workers she could hang out with on occasion. Then she felt a warm, muscular shoulder push into hers. By the time she looked up, Clint had gained enough momentum that when he rocked into her again, she was knocked off her butt and onto her side.

"Oompf!"

"Heh," Clint continued to rock, childishly knocking her back over every time she tried to get back up.

"Jesus Christ, what are you, five?!" Colleen huffed, sliding off the couch to finally escape Clint's pendulum-like attack. She pushed her bangs out of her face and huffed again, slyly grabbing a pillow that had fallen onto the ground. She then stood up, making it perfectly obvious that she was about to pummel him into the couch cushions with her pillow (so he wouldn't freak out, react on impulse, and snap her neck or something if she surprised him), and brought it down with a resounding 'whap'!

Clint was on his side, laughing and dodging Colleen's attacks, letting her go until she ran out of steam. She dropped onto the couch and picked up the remote, exclaiming "Ooo, _Futurama_'s on!" and turning the volume up.

Clint leaned over, nudging her again with his shoulder. She looked at him suspiciously, expecting another shove attack. "You don't have to feel alone, you know. And we're all really sorry about what happened, even if no one's outright said that to you."

Colleen smiled at his words, leaning her head on his (oh so firm) shoulder. "Thanks, superhero buddy."

"No problem, Ms. I-burned-the-easy-bake-cake Sidekick."

Colleen's eyes widened and she bolted up, running for the kitchen. God damnit…


	9. Chapter 9

Colleen and Clint hung out on a regular basis after that night. Their new-found familiarity with each other, while initially surprising to the other Avengers and Colleen's colleagues, actually made the two of them much easier to bear. Dr. Blanc and Dr. Mattock felt less obliged to look after her, though they still did look after her, to a much further extent than their jobs required. They both left Stark Tower quite often now, to visit their families (who had been relocated to nearby the Tower, within the city).

Natasha found she had more free time to herself without Clint frequently barging in on her, demanding attention like a small puppy. She was by nature a solitary person, and while she loved Clint dearly, sometimes she just wanted to meditate alone.

Colleen found she had much more time to learn the skills her work had previously prevented her from learning. Her days still started early, but she often had a two hour long break in the afternoon before returning to the lab to finish her experiments. They were just running basic experiments on Clint's brain tissue, growing the samples and staining them to see if any proteins were expressed differently.

During this break, she often went down to the kitchens for a cooking lesson from Tony's private chef. Back in Boston, and even before that, when she was in medical school, she worked hundred and twenty hour weeks. Instant noodles and microwavable pizzas had become staple foods for her. Sometimes, she'd head to Central park for a jog (always accompanied by her two trusty agents, of course) and take a short nap.

Afterwards, she'd return to the lab for a few hours before being done for the day. She would then retire to her apartment and begin cooking dinner, which was usually not ready until late. On occasion, her new friend Jane (an astrophysicist who apparently subsisted on pop tarts and coffee) and her intern, Darcy, would drop by to eat. And when Clint finished his missions in time for dinner, he would invariably end up helping her do the dishes as well, and sometimes fall asleep with her on the couch watching TV.

Clint had recovered remarkably well from surgery, saying he felt no different than before his encounter with Loki. Except for the occasional headache, he proclaimed he felt he was in tip top shape. His check ups showed his brain was healing remarkably well, and his tests showed his reflexes were still in excellent condition. He still lost to Jarvis at chess, though, even when he asked Jarvis to play at "child level setting".

With his time split between training, missions, hanging out with the Avengers, and hanging out with Colleen, he ended his days feeling satisfied and fulfilled. He'd wheedled Colleen into having coffee with him, Tasha, and Steve every morning before work (Tony had declined morning coffee, suggesting he much preferred morning nookie with Pepper instead). Of course, he started his day so late Colleen had often already been to work for a few hours before the coffee break, but that was just a detail.

"_C'moooon!" Clint pulled at her sleeve, childishly._

_Colleen fixed her friend with a steely eyed glare. "No."_

"_Please?" he whined._

"_No."_

"_How come!" He really was like a five year old._

"_Because."_

_Clint huffed. "But that's not a real answer!"_

"_Fine. _Because:_ I don't want to."_

_He ran his hand through his (too long) hair. "It'll be good for you. _And_ them. And did you know what Steve said when he found out you were his neighbor?"_

"_No," she replied stoically, "and I don't really care."_

"_Well," Clint barreled on, as if she hadn't said anything at all, "he said 'It probably doesn't matter because people in New York never get to know their neighbors anyhow'! Can you believe that?"_

_Colleen ducked under the arm Clint tried to sling around her shoulders to steer her in the direction of the SHIELD café. "Yes, I can believe it, because I've heard it too. It's not like that's offensive or anything."_

"_You didn't reply to my first reason, doc."_

_She stopped, waiting impatiently for him to continue. Physically trying to sneak past him was getting impossible._

"_I _said_ it'll be good for you guys! C'mon, make some new friends. Socialize a little! You can't only hang out with me and that Jane person all the time. And then things can stop being so awkward and I can hang out with all of you guys at once." His eyes pleaded with her. "Pleeeeease?"_

_Colleen narrowed her eyes at him. A part of her recognized that maybe he was right, and she should try to make the best of an admittedly not so great situation. But another part of her was stubbornly refusing to concede._

_Clint waited, eyes still pleading until Colleen finally gave in. "Fine! But _only_ for half an hour. I have to get back to work. These lab tests won't run themselves."_

_Clint pumped his arm in the air in triumph before swinging it over Colleen's tiny shoulders, giving her a one-armed hug. "You won't regret it. It'll be fun, I promise. A turning point for the better!"_

He had _not_ been true to his word. It had been awkward and full of stilted conversation. Generic questions of "So, Natasha, how long have you been doing this spy stuff for?" "Since I was nine" and "What do your parents do?" "They were part of a drug smuggling ring in Russia. Now they're dead" while Steve and Clint reverted back to being children and holding their coffee cups with their pinkies sticking out, speaking in British accents, and giggling like little girls.

'_Such smart, fancy men these two are.'_ Colleen had thought sarcastically.

But at the end, the two Avengers had warmly invited Colleen to join them again for coffee in two days, and even given her small smiles with their waves goodbye. So it became a habit. Every odd day of the week they met at the café at ten in the morning for coffee. '_A turning point for the better'_, he'd said. Maybe he had been _a little_ right.

* * *

Colleen nervously fingered neon belly shirt and tightened her side ponytail, trying to keep it as high and perky as she could. She felt ridiculous. She _looked_ ridiculous. It was October 31, Halloween night, and Tony was throwing not one, but _two_ Halloween bashes. One was for SHIELD employees, who probably preferred for their identities to be kept as secret as possible, and the other was for Stark Industries employees.

While the Stark company Halloween bash was more traditional in the sense that anyone could wear whatever costume they wanted, everyone attending the SHIELD Halloween bash was required to be dressed in clothes from, or as an iconic figure from, an era of the 20th century _after_ the 40s. It had stemmed from a "brilliant" idea (ok, so she supposed it actually _was_ pretty clever of Tony) to introduce the Captain to the decades of fashion he'd missed while he was asleep. And because everyone had their own pick of clothes, different fashions from the same eras were sure to be exhibited.

Was this going to be like a work function? Where everyone broke off into their own little groups, quietly sipping wine and champagne, and had work-friendly discussions? Or would it be some ridiculous rager, with a DJ playing house music and half naked gogo dancers (another fashion that Steve missed) writhing in cages?

'_Oh my god I am too sober for that.'_

She had only recently been able to start drinking again, after that bender she went on almost three months ago. In fact, the champagne Clint had brought as his peace offering was the first she'd had since after the incident.

She was ready to back out. An entire floor, filled to the brim with crazy SHIELD agents? Assassins, spies, intelligence analysts? She didn't think she could handle it. She could just text Clint, let him know she was sick, and gracefully bow out before anything crazy happ—

"HEY THERE!"

Her plan for backing out slowly shriveled up and died when she saw Clint's expression as he came barreling through the door. There was _no_ stopping this, that was for sure. His hair was dyed a ridiculous, oily black (oh please let it be temporary, his hair was so cute before), and he wore more eyeliner than her.

"Jesus, Clint, you're an emo?"

Steve sighed and edged away from Clint. "You look like a vampire, Clint."

Clint whipped around, looking mock-affronted. He brandished his index finger in the air and pointed at the Captain's chest, emphasizing his words with forceful pokes. "I. Am not. A vampire. I am an _emo_. Say it with me. _Eeeee-mooooow._"

Steve threw a confused look at Colleen, and she proceeded to give a better explanation that Clint probably did earlier. "It's short for 'emotional person'. It means someone really angsty, who sort of hates life and focuses on the negative. They, uh," she gestured at Clint's outfit, "they wear a lot of black. It was a fashion and attitude statement of the 2000s. Which _technically,_" she whapped Clint on the shoulder, "isn't in the twentieth century, is it."

Clint just shrugged and tugged at the crotch of his jeans. "Whatever, but don't let it be said that I don't commit. Damn, how do they wear this stuff? These jeans are so tight I'm pretty sure my balls—"

Natasha emerged out of nowhere and slapped a hand over Clint's mouth, shooting him a warning look and motioning towards the highly affronted looking Captain.

"Sorry I'm late, I was going over some last minute security measures and double checking everything." She looked around, taking in Colleen's 80's outfit, Clint's emo outfit, and Steve's sharpied face. Two black circles were drawn around his eyes and a lightening bolt was glaringly obvious on his forehead. "Harry Potter?"

Steve nodded, looking dejected. "Tony told me he'd give me a great costume, and took out some black marker to draw it on. He said I could wash it off if I didn't like it…" Steve sighed. "'Sharpie' does _not_ wash off. And then Clint showed me on the google who Harry Potter was. He's British!"

Clint snorted at Steve's use of the term 'the google', and the fact that Captain America was dressed up as a 17 year old, British wizard, and was treated with a simultaneous glare from both Natasha and Colleen.

"C'mon Cap, lemme fix those glasses for you." Natasha whipped out a Sharpie (where did she keep that?) and quickly added lines between the circles, helping Steve to look less like an owl and more like HP.

"And Natasha, you're Marilyn?" Colleen asked.

Natasha nodded, her curled, blonde wig bobbing. She probably had all sorts of knives and guns hidden under that wig and under that dress, just waiting to be used. She'd been undercover in much skimpier outfits before—really, this Halloween bash was just a little training for her missions.

"Marilyn Monroe," she clarified for Steve. "She was an actress and singer from the 50s and 60s. Really popular with the men. This dress," she swished the skirt of her white halter dress, "was one of her most famous outfits."

Steve nodded. "I'll be sure to use the google to find out more about it."

Clint was almost bouncing with energy. He was _definitely_ a little drunk. "Alright, doc, Cap, Tash? You guys ready to slam back a couple shots and get to the party?!"

And again, at the expression on his face, everyone knew there was no getting out of this one. So Colleen led everyone into her kitchen, broke out some vodka (Natasha's choice) from the minibar, and they bolstered themselves for a long (and hopefully fun) night.

* * *

AN: if anyone has any ideas for what should happen at the party, any funny cute situations i could put the characters in, please private message me. i'm not great at party scenes and i'm considering just skipping past it to the day after :/

and of course, please review! i really appreciate it and it encourages me to keep writing when i feel a bit stuck


	10. Chapter 10

AN: This is the new chapter! I uploaded 9.5 at the wrong time (it should've been 10.5). It should be fixed now!

Tony and Clint woke up sprawled on the floor of Tony's Stark Tower penthouse, both clutching their heads and begging Jarvis to please close the blinds to block out the morning sunlight.

"Jesus, it feels like Thor's just been pounding away at my skull with his damn hammer," Tony muttered, dragging himself into sitting position and leaning against a wall.

Clint gave a twitch to indicate a nod of assent, "Yeah," he mumbled into the floor, still unable to turn over onto his back. "I swear to god I'm never drinking again."

The two of them were silent for a while, the only sound being Jarvis's smug voice (could AI robots even _be_ smug?) announcing the weather and humidity for the day. "Shut _up_ Jarvis, please."

Tony pulled himself to his feet (Clint was still face down on the floor) and hobbled his way over to the kitchen. He came back with two large glasses of water, and a handful of Tylenol. He then settled down next to Clint's prone body and nudge him with his foot.

"Hey. Barton."

Clint mumbled into the floor again.

"I got some painkillers for you." Tony nudged him harder with his foot.

Clint finally managed to turn over, coughing as he did so, his arms back over his eyes as if to block out his pounding headache. He mumbled his thanks and managed to hoist himself into sitting position as well. He crossed his legs and rested his head on his elbows, his elbows on his knees.

He reached for the painkillers in Tony's outstretched hands, eager to get them into his system as fast as possible. "Ah ah ah, wait one second." Tony withdrew his hand, giving Clint a calculating look.

"I figure I don't usually have this much leverage over you, and there is something I've been _dying_ to know. No painkillers til you talk, buddy."

Clint groaned. "Isn't that blackmail?"

Tony shrugged. "Nah, I don't think so. Blackmail would be if I already _knew_ the answer to my question and demanded painkillers from _you_ to keep _me_ quiet. Just details though. I think the principle might be the same…" Tony tapped his chin with his index finger, as if really considering this.

"Ugh, what do you want, Tony. You know I can just get some back in my room right?"

Clint had flopped back to the floor, not making a very good case for his statement. Tony snorted. As if Clint could _walk_ back to his room in his condition. Hilarious.

"Well, if you wanted to go back, that's your call. You sure you can walk to the elevator, take it all the way down to your apartment like, ten floors down, and then get yourself to your room? No problem." Tony gulped down more of his water. "Me, though? I'm gonna have my chef whip me up a bloody mary, and probably go back to sleep. Won't have to move more than twenty feet. You could join me," he ended with a singsong-y voice.

Clint's eyes shifted to the black couch in Tony's living room that he wished he'd fallen asleep on instead of the floor. But he had an idea of what Tony was going to ask him and he wasn't quite sure he wanted to deal with that right now.

Then his head gave a painful jolt and he relented. "Fine, Tony, what the hell do you want?"

Tony grinned victoriously and slid a single Tylenol towards Clint. "Just _what_, exactly, is going on with you and the good doctor Bamer?"

Clint sighed. Truth be told, he'd been expecting this question for a long time. Natasha was the only one he'd told about his itty bitty little crush, but with all the time he spent with Colleen, the others were bound to notice. "_Nothing._ Absolutely nothing. We're just friends. Like me and Tash." Comparing her to Natasha probably wasn't helping his case, seeing as how he'd fallen in love with her all those years ago, but this damn headache was just too distracting.

Tony rolled his eyes. "First off, probably not the best comparison you'd wanna use right now." Damn, so Tony had caught that mistake. "Secondly, did you and the Widow fall asleep in each other's rooms like, every other night? I mean, maybe you _are_ just friends. You _did _stay at my place last night. Oh the rumor mill must be working overtime. Enough people think you're gay as it is—"

"TONY!" Clint ground out, angrily. "I am _not_ gay, no matter _what_ half of those damn fangirls think," (Tony snickered), "and _how exactly_ do you know where I spend my nights?"

Tony laid back down on the floor, pillowing his head with his hands. "Oh, just a simple matter of watching the video footage for the 80A hallway of apartments." He glanced at Clint. "C'mon, you know those security videos are totally free for me to access. It's only _inside_ the SHIELD apartments that I need Fury's approval to see too."

Clint threw Tony a dirty look. "You're such a snoop. You sure you're not secretly a sixteen year old, gossipy girl?"

Tony laughed. He _did_ have a big mouth.

"And we were just sleeping," Clint grumbled. "Nothing…nothing's ever happened."

Tony laughed again. "And of course you want something to happen, right?"

Clint tried shrugging, but any movement was hell on his headache. "Nah, man, we're just friends."

Tony nodded sagely. "Yeah, definitely. Just friends." Then he rolled his eyes. "Jesus, get better at lying. You're _so_ transparent, Clint."

He heaved himself to his feet again, stumbling over to his empty bed (Pepper was back in DC for the week). "Well, good luck to you and your _friendship_. You can crash on my couch if you want." He then directed his voice to Jarvis, "JARVIS! Tell the chef to send me up a couple of bloody marys, and a few extra vitamin packed smoothies. Gotta get rid of this hangover. And get a couple of IV bags in here too, my head is _killing_ me."

Clint slumped back to the floor and wondered if there was any chance Tony would keep his mouth shut about this. Probably not.


	11. Chapter 10 and a half

SORRY! This isn't the new chapter, the new chapter is actually now labeled "10. Chapter 10". And this chapter is now 10.5 not 9.5. I uploaded these in the wrong order. So if you got an alert and have already read this chapter, go to the chapter before the one; that's the newest chapter. If you're reading this after Sept 15 2012, than things should already be in the right order

A/N: Couldn't resist this; it's more of a minichapter. The song is Pink's 'Trouble'. Once again, I don't own anything, esp not Mission Impossible. (and from the last chapter, obv I don't own HP or sharpie or anything name brand; I pretty much own nothing, really)

* * *

Darcy was sitting at the diner table, saving their seats while Jane and Colleen went to the bathroom. It was their reunion brunch after she and Jane had just come back from New Mexico. Thor was back! Darcy popped her gum loudly and nodded her head to the music. She glanced at the bathroom door, wondering where those two had gotten to. Jane was probably just gushing about Thor again.

The next song that popped up was a music video she'd downloaded a while ago, because she had the _teensiest, weensiest_ crush on the main guy in it. Actually, she hadn't watched it for a while. _'Time to refresh my hot-guy memory'_ she thought absently, leaning back in her chair and holding the iPod out in front of her.

"_No attorneys_

_To plead my case_

_No orbits_

_To send me into outta space_

_And my fingers_

_Are bejeweled_

_With diamonds and gold_

_But that ain't gonna help me now_

_I'm trouble…"_

"Whoa!"

Darcy's eyes squinted at the screen as the music continued to blare in her headphones, wishing she was watching this on a Stark phone so she could enlarge the sheriff's face. She finished out the music video, Jane and Colleen showing up near the end of the song and settling into their chairs.

Jane peeked over her shoulder. "What's that, Darce?"

Darcy waved her away impatiently, until the song was over. When she resurfaced, Jane and Colleen had started some boring conversation about ANOVA and some other statistical analysis tool.

"Guys, you _have_ to take a look at this." Her voice was excited, and a giddy smile was on her face. She slid her iPod across the table towards the two scientists and restarted the music video. "No no, you don't need the headphones for this," she said when Colleen reached for one of the earbuds.

The two women shrugged and waited, looks of shock registering on both their faces when the sheriff appeared.

"_Oh my god_," Colleen gasped.

"Yup," Darcy responded, nodding emphatically. "It looks just like your friend Clint, doesn't it!"

Jane hit 'pause' just as the sheriff reappeared on the screen and the three women stared at the iPod.

"That's a dead ringer for Clint! I mean, minus the eye makeup and cowboy hat…"

"Yeah…but maybe he just has a generic face or something. That guy in the new Mission Impossible film looked just like him too, now that I think about it!"

"Hey yeah! Oh my god, maybe he's just more talented than we thought he was. Maybe he's an actor on the side?"

Darcy, Colleen, and Jane collectively squinted their eyes and tilted their heads. A beat of silence passed, before they all muttered, "Nah" and turned back to their menus.


	12. Chapter 11

"So…" Darcy drew the 'o' vowel out, raising one eyebrow at Colleen with a suspicious look. "Word around town is that you have the hots for Hawkeye."

Colleen didn't reply, concentrating instead on pipetting the solution perfectly into the sixteen tiny little culture wells that sat in front of her. The pink liquid looked tantalizing, like Snapple Apple juice. Yum.

"Or at least he has the hots for _you_."

Colleen stayed quiet, keeping her eyes on her work.

"Have you guys banged yet?" Darcy smirked, crossing her arms and leaning against a nearby refrigerator.

Colleen finished with the wells and disposed of her pipette tip. In the next couple seconds she had grabbed a sterile, needle-less syringe, filled it from a new bottle of distilled water, and squirted it in Darcy's face.

"Hey!" Darcy's face scrunched as the water hit her, and she quickly scurried behind the refrigerator as Colleen advanced on her with more water. "You're gonna give me some disease or something!" she squealed, inching her way towards the door.

Colleen rolled her eyes and set the syringe down, handing Darcy a few napkins from the bench. "Whatever, Darce. You know that stuff's clean. Nice and sterile for you and your potty mouth."

Darcy shrugged and accepted the napkins. "Just letting you know what all the juicy gossip is," she said cheekily. "Sometimes I think you're as oblivious to the world as Jane. What is it with you brilliant scientist chicks and blocking out the rest of the universe other than your research? Oh, and of course your super hot, super built men."

Colleen just rolled her eyes again, and then grinned. "Just a skill, I guess." She washed her hands, shaking out the excess water droplets and patting her hands dry with paper towels. "You ready to go? You think Jane's done with whatever she ran back to her lab to do?"

Darcy nodded and pulled a lollipop out of her sweater pocket. "Yeah. I'm surprised she's coming with us at all. Ever since Thor got back it's all been about him and her research. I'm practically force feeding her." She handed an extra lollipop to Colleen. "I think she'd subsist on IV fluids if we'd let her."

Colleen laughed and accepted the lollipop, and the two made their way towards the exit. "We shouldn't be eating these anyways, they'll spoil our appetites," the doctor murmured, even as she unwrapped the sweet and stuck it in her mouth. Chupa-chups were the best.

Darcy banged her fist on the 'down' button for the elevator, and as the doors opened, who should walk out but the topic of their previous conversation. Darcy's eyes glinted. "Speak of the devil…"

Clint raised an eyebrow questioningly, his arms crossed over his chest and his shoulder leaning against the elevator wall. "Talking about me, ladies?" he asked, grinning widely.

Darcy was quick to answer, cutting Colleen off before the first syllable was even out of the doctor's mouth. "Yes! Actually. We were talking about you and Colleen here, and when exactly you two were going to b—" Colleen's eyes widened dramatically and she rushed to cut Darcy off, cursing herself for not paying attention to the conversation earlier.

"NOTHING! Nothing. Jesus Darcy, stop putting words in my mouth." Colleen glared at her young friend, who just looked back innocently, before saying.

"I bet you wish _Clint_ was putting something in your mouth instead, don't you…"

Both Colleen and Clint coughed loudly, shooting daggers out their eyes at Darcy. Colleen breathed a sigh of frustration and ran her hand through her hair (a habit she'd picked up from Clint) and undid her ponytail, only to put it up again. This was probably the longest elevator ride in existence…

The doors opened on the fortieth floor and a Stark employee entered, oblivious to the tension between the elevator's three inhabitants.

Clint re-crossed his arms and stared at the descending numbers on the elevator wall. God she wished he'd just wear long sleeves or something, those arms really were distracting when he was wearing such revealing shirts…

She absently stuck her lollipop back in her mouth and looked away. _'Bad thoughts, Colleen. He's your friend. And you're leaving in like eight months anyways.'_

She didn't notice the intense stare Clint had fixated on her lips, or the darkening blush that colored his cheeks. But Darcy did. She smiled wickedly and waited until the elevator door 'dinged' to say "Don't suck on that thing so hard, doc. You'll ruin your appetite for the main course," and sauntered out.

The Stark employee hurried out of the elevator, wondering if such obvious innuendo was necessary. Colleen choked a bit on her candy and laughed awkwardly, quickly escaping the elevator and following Darcy out into the street. She gave Clint a twitchy jerk that barely passed as a wave goodbye, and disappeared out the doors. Clint was blushing furiously and he ran his hand through his hair agitatedly, wondering if people were going to stop torturing him about Colleen anytime soon. The elevator doors closed with a 'ding' and he was back on his way down to the gym, ready for a good workout. He definitely had some frustration he needed to work off.


End file.
